Hercule Poirot, Inspecteur de Police
by dryswan79
Summary: It is the early 1900s and Hercule Poirot is an Inspecteur de la Police Judiciaire in Belgium.
1. The death of Madame de Villeneuve

Brussels, May 1907

Madame Gersande de Villeneuve, a 53-year-old widow, lived in a modest sized house in a quiet street in the Brussels suburb of Auderghem. Her resident companion was her dependent niece, Léonie Peyron, a 22-year-old young woman who was shy, plain and of indifferent health. Madame de Villeneuve was severe and overbearing and the few suitors who had approached her niece had never returned. They had a maid called Henriette and a young gardener named Jean tended the gardens three days a week.

"For heaven's sake, go and see Docteur Lauzière!" snapped her aunt as Léonie coughed yet again.

The elderly Docteur Lauzière had retired and his practice had been taken over by the younger and rather dashing Eugène Brard who had recently arrived from France. Léonie duly consulted the doctor and he was so solicitous for her health that she proceeded to ignore his advice simply so that her condition would worsen to the extent that he would have to carry out a house call. Madame de Villeneuve was a shrewd woman and did not trust Brard. It was not that she disliked handsome men but she knew nothing of the 46-year-old doctor; she did however know her niece's disposition and how susceptible she was to flattery.

One morning, as the women were sitting together at breakfast, Henriette brought a letter to Madame de Villeneuve. She carefully opened it, read the contents and with a tight-lipped smile she excused herself.

-o-

Two days later when Henriette took her mistress her early morning cup of tea, she found the woman had died during the night.

-o-

29-year-old Hercule Poirot had only been an Inspecteur adjoint de la police judiciaire in the Belgian police force for 12 days and was relishing his first case as senior officer, investigating the death of Madame de Villeneuve. Although the initial verdict was death through natural causes, Poirot was not convinced and he looked forward to receiving the Médecin Légiste's post-mortem report.

When Poirot arrived in Auderghem to interview a visibly distraught Léonie he found her sitting in the garden.

"Bonjour Mademoiselle. Ah! This is a beautiful garden."

Léonie smiled wanly "It was Tante Gersande's favourite place. She loved the rhododendrons."

"I see how difficult this is for you, however there are questions I must ask. Can you think of anyone who may have wished to harm your aunt?"

The young woman looked horrified "You think she was murdered?"

Before Poirot could reply, Docteur Brard rounded the house and strode briskly towards them.

"Léonie!" he cried "I've just heard the terrible news. Why didn't you or Henriette call me?"

She replied, not meeting his eye "Henriette thought it would be better to call the police."

Brard took her hand, turned to Poirot and said "Léonie is not strong enough to answer your questions. I recommend that we return to the house so she can rest." Without waiting for a response, he led Léonie away.

-o-

The doctor bounded down the stairs to join Poirot in the small drawing room and said with a reassuring smile "She's lying down, and I've recommended she take one of her sleeping powders. Now, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I suppose you would like my professional opinion on Madame de Villeneuve? She was a good woman, however her health has been declining of late."

Poirot cocked his head to the side and asked "You believe, Monsieur le Docteur, that Madame's death is natural?"

"Obviously! My professional opinion is heart failure."

"Perhaps it is so. Me? I will await the professional opinion of the Médecin Légiste. Good day."

Poirot was accosted as he left by Henriette who nearly dragged him to the kitchen.

"I heard every word that man said. There was nothing wrong with Madame's health. Sound as a bell, it was. Never a day's illness in her life."

"Indeed? Tell me about yesterday."

"Well Monsieur" began Henriette "Madame received a letter. Right pleased she was too."

"Did you see from whom the letter came?"

"Yes, from a Monsieur Despoix in the Rue de l'Etuve. Anyway, after breakfast she took the letter up to her room. She has a bureau there for all her papers." Creeping over to the kitchen door, Henriette peered around it and then returned to Poirot and began to whisper.

"After she had been in her room for about an hour, she came down here to the kitchen. She had telephoned to her lawyer, Monsieur Sancerres, and was going to see him this morning about a new will."

Poirot concealed his surprise "Do you know, Madame, the contents of the new will?"

Henriette shook her head "No, Monsieur."

"Did anyone else in the house know about it?"

"Jean was out in the garden, Mademoiselle Léonie was in the house. Perhaps she overheard? It would not be the first time she listened at the keyholes." she replied sourly.

He proceeded to ask Henriette whether there had been any visitors and what Madame had eaten on the day she died. Madame de Villeneuve had, uncharacteristically, given Jean and Henriette the afternoon off so the maid did not know whether there had been any callers in her absence, although she suspected the doctor had called on the off-chance of seeing Léonie. She had prepared the evening meal of thick vegetable broth and salad for Madame de Villeneuve before she left, Léonie had accepted an invitation from a friend to dinner and an evening at the theatre. Henriette did not see Madame when she returned at the end of the evening but as it was late, her mistress was already in bed. The dishes had been stacked in the sink to be washed the next morning.

Thanking Henriette, Poirot bowed from the kitchen and climbed the narrow staircase to Madame de Villeneuve's bedroom which was guarded by a junior officer. Inspecteur Poirot paced slowly around the room, paying close attention to every detail, in particular the elegant maple wood bureau. He sifted through the various papers and letters but there was nothing from Monsieur Despoix, the letter had gone and with it a potential motive for murder. On the nightstand were a handful of books, mostly on plant-life and botany.

Before returning to his office, Poirot decided to have a word with the gardener who was weeding the flowerbeds.

"Monsieur Jean? I compliment you on your work. This garden is very beautiful!"

Jean shrugged "It's not bad. It was almost perfect until some imbecile ruined my rhododendrons. See here?" he pointed to a nearby shrub. Sure enough, a few stems at the back had been broken off.

"Now I'll have to prune the whole thing to compensate for the missing leaves." and with a sigh of frustration, Jean turned back to his work. "At least Madame will not see the damage. She was a knowledgeable botanist, she taught me a great deal."

Poirot asked the man what he could remember about the day of Madame de Villeneuve's death.

"Not much, I was kept busy most of the day planting the new roses and preparing a batch of weedkiller. I didn't see Madame but the drawing room window was open and I heard a man's voice. It was low but I think it may have been the doctor."

"At what time was this?"

The gardener looked at Poirot and thought for a moment. "Around four in the afternoon."

Poirot left the house with much food for thought. By the time he arrived back at his desk, the post-mortem report had been delivered. It came as no surprise to him that the cause of Madame de Villeneuve's death was poison.

Something about the letter Madame de Villeneuve had received had inspired her to consult her lawyer and had perhaps brought about her death. His first task was to discover the contents of the letter and to that end, he would have to make an appointment with Monsieur Despoix.

-o-

Monsieur Despoix was a private investigator whose dusty office was on the first floor of an unassuming building. To Poirot, a man who prized order and method above all things, the disordered state of the room was offensive and, while the detective was not delighted to receive a visit from the police, he complied with Poirot's request for information. Despoix was even less pleased when he discovered that his client had died and that he would not be paid for his services. He confirmed that had been engaged by Madame de Villeneuve to investigate Docteur Brard and reluctantly told Poirot of his findings.

After his illuminating conversation with the detective, Poirot paid a visit to Monsieur Sancerres and once he had replies to telegrams he had sent to France, his final questions were answered.

-o-

Poirot had returned to the house in Auderghem and had assembled Léonie, Docteur Brard, Jean and Henriette in the drawing room.

"The death of Madame de Villeneuve is a puzzle. The how and the why, those are the keys to this mystery. How did Madame de Villeneuve die and, more importantly, why?"

Poirot turned to face Docteur Brard. "All this begins with you."

Brard's eyes widened in shock. "Me?"

"You were aware that Madame had engaged a detective to investigate you, Mademoiselle Léonie told you. She receives a letter containing the results of his investigations and suddenly, two days later, Madame she dies. Is it a coincidence? Poirot, he does not believe in the coincidence. Her death must be connected to the letter she received. The letter which has, unfortunately, disappeared. But you did not destroy it, did you Mademoiselle Léonie?"

Léonie shook her head and pulled the crumpled letter from her pocket and handed it to Poirot. He opened and read it, smiling slightly. With a nod, he folded the letter and returned it to her.

"It is as I thought. I am afraid that Madame's death is in part your concern Docteur Brard. She did not trust you, she saw that Mademoiselle Léonie was fond of you but it was only when she suspected that you had begun to return her feelings that Madame determined to find out about you and engaged Monsieur Despoix to investigate your past. The letter which Madame received, and which Mademoiselle Léonie kindly showed to me, speaks of your past and in particular your time in Montpellier at Saint-Eloi hospital."

Brard looked at Poirot and nodded his head, silently giving his permission to proceed. Turning to face the others in the room, Poirot continued. "In Montpellier, Eugène Brard was a talented medical student at the teaching hospital. He was within a month of finishing his studies and qualifying as a doctor when he was suddenly expelled by the principal of the medical school based on allegations of medical malpractice resulting in the death by poisoning of a patient."

"This was not true, was it?" asked Poirot.

Brard sighed deeply "No. Ophélie Prévert was a beautiful woman and I fell in love with her the moment I met her. However, she was married to the school principal. From the time I arrived she tried to entrap me. I refused all contact with her, rebuffed her advances. Finally, she had had enough and out of spite, she lodged the false allegations. Professeur Prévert was a fair man, I think he knew that I was innocent. He sent me to Lille where I qualified and began to work as a doctor."

"And the patient in Montpellier?"

"After I left, it came out that the old lady's son had used strychnine to poison her."

"And you came to Belgium."

The doctor nodded "A vague rumour reached Lille, although the truth was well-known by then, some people will never believe it."

"Unfortunately" said Poirot "I suspect that Madame de Villeneuve was one such unbeliever. But since the truth is known, the knowledge of the detective's findings is of no consequence. There is no need for the concealment and so no reason for Madame to be silenced."

Léonie wiped her eyes on an already damp handkerchief "Monsieur l'Inspecteur? Please. Tell me how she died? Tante Gersande and I were never very affectionate, but she was my aunt. Please?"

Poirot watched each of them. "The cause of Madame's death, it was poison."

"Poison?" shrieked Henriette "I hope you're not going to blame my cooking?"

"And why not?" replied Poirot. "You are the cook, you have access to many household poisons. What could be easier?"

Henriette looked shocked and outraged.

"In point of fact, except for Docteur Brard, any one of you could have poisoned her. Mademoiselle Henriette, Mademoiselle Léonie, either of you could have poisoned the dinner before you left. And you Monsieur Jean? You were here on the day Madame died, you could easily have used some of your weedkiller. I cannot know for certain, but I hazard a guess that Madame told you, Monsieur Jean and you, Mademoiselle Henriette, of Docteur Brard's past. Of course, she omitted to tell you that he was innocent – that would not help with her plan. But it was enough to make you both distrustful toward the doctor. When I first spoke to you, Monsieur, you told me that at four in the afternoon you had been working on the new roses and had overheard voices from the drawing room. However, Mademoiselle Henriette told me herself that you had both been given the afternoon off. It is interesting that you both mentioned that the doctor may have been here. But, alas for you, the good doctor was at his surgery all day. His secretary an a waiting room full of patients can confirm this."

"Contrary to appearances, Madame de Villeneuve was unwell. Monsieur le docteur, you were correct in your diagnosis, Madame's heart was indeed failing. She knew this, and since she distrusted you and your motives towards her niece, she resolved to separate you. The poison ingested by Madame was from the flowers and leaves of the rhododendron. There were books in her room on plants and Monsieur Jean himself told me that Madame was a botanist. As soon as Jean was out of sight, Madame de Villeneuve took leaves and flowers and once Henriette had left, she added them to her dinner. Madame knew that Mademoiselle Léonie would want to know what was in the letter, so she left it on the bureau in her room."

He turned to look at Léonie "You did not intend to keep the letter, but I assume that you entered her room once you were sure she was asleep. You found the letter on the bureau and as you were reading it, the poison began to take effect. You ran to fetch Henriette and begged her to telephone to the doctor. I wonder why, Mademoiselle Henriette, did you refuse?"

Henriette was silent "You refused because Madame told you what she was going to do, am I right? She told you she was dying, she told you of her unfounded suspicion of the doctor and she told you how she was going to be rid of him. After the rumour of a woman being poisoned at a hospital where Docteur Brard was working, who would not jump to the conclusion that he had perhaps struck again?"

Pale and trembling, Léonie hissed at the maid "How could you?"

Henriette rose stiffly to her feet "So, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, you intend to have me arrested?"

Poirot shook his head "No, but I fear that because of your actions yourself and Monsieur Jean may have to seek employment elsewhere once Mademoiselle Léonie and Docteur Brard are married."

Addressing himself to Léonie, he said "Mademoiselle, I am sorry for your loss." Smiling, he continued "May I assume, Monsieur le Docteur, that you will take good care of the young lady?"

"The very best, as always." replied the doctor, gently taking Léonie's hand.

"Then all is well. I bid you a good day."


	2. The Night Train to Paris

Brussels, November 1907

Poirot always timed his arrival at the police headquarters on Rue Royale to be at his desk at 8a.m. not only because of the agreeable symmetry of the time but also because it gave him a half hour to set his office to rights after the ministrations of Madame Aubin and her duster. She was a kind-hearted and enthusiastic woman but despite all his hints to the contrary, she persisted in helpfully cleaning and tidying the office.

Carefully placing his uniform jacket on the ornate valet stand, he set to straightening his papers and files. Once the order and method had been restored to his desk, Poirot sat down to turn his attention to the day's correspondence. He had hardly been able to read the first letter before a furious hammering was heard on his door. With an impatient sigh, Poirot stood and retrieved his jacket and crossed the office, buttoning up the jacket as he went.

He opened the door to see a man in his late forties and before Poirot could say a word, the man blurted out "She's gone! She's gone! Someone has snatched her away and you have to find her!", then sank, wracked by bitter sobs, onto the floor.

-o-

Twenty minutes later, fortified by a cup of strong coffee, Monsieur Pierrick Hourdin began to explain himself to Poirot.

He was a clerk at the Banque de Bruxelles and lived with his wife, eight-year-old son, governess and maid in Schaerbeek near Brussels. Madame Hourdin was the daughter of a deceased gemstone dealer from Leeuwarden, a town in the north of The Netherlands and the previous night had apparently left the house with no word of where she was going.

"But, Monsieur, I do not see any reason for me to investigate." said Poirot, reasonably. "If Madame has indeed left of her own accord?"

"Gerta would never just leave like that." her husband replied.

"What makes you believe that indeed a crime has been committed and Madame has been, as you say, snatched away?"

"As I said, she would never leave. Inspecteur, please take the case?"

"Until there is proof that a crime has been committed, I cannot, alas, act."

"Fine" snarled Hourdin savagely. "And for the sake of your principles I can only hope I don't have to ask you to investigate my wife's murder" and he turned on his heel and left.

Poirot slowly shook his head at the folly of husbands but nonetheless asked young Elève Officier Jacquemin to keep an ear open for anything concerning Madame Hourdin.

Late in the afternoon, Jacquemin tapped at Poirot's door and saluted smartly, bringing news of the missing lady.

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I was talking to my cousin Albert, he's a night porter at the Bruxelles Midi station. He said that he saw Madame Hourdin last night! She was boarding the direct train to Paris."

"Albert is sure that it was Madame Hourdin?"

"He's fairly sure. Madame is-" Jacquemin lowered his voice "She is a Lutheran. Just like my cousin Albert, so he has seen her at church. He says she was wearing a long fur coat and the brown hat she always wears to church."

"But in the dark, a lady of the same height in a coat and hat that Madame is known to possess, it could be anyone!"

Jacquemin shrugged "As I say, Albert's only fairly sure. She arrived at the station in a private car, one of those new Minervas. As she climbed down, she turned and spoke to the driver 'Don't say anything to Pierrick. It's too late now.'"

Out of curiosity, Poirot sent a telegram to a confrère in Paris, asking for news of a Madame Hourdin arriving on the overnight train from Brussels. The next morning, Jacquemin brought him the telegram in reply: No passenger travelling under Hourdin found to have disembarked in Paris. However, an unclaimed suitcase which had been left behind on the train contained a lady's fur coat and brown hat; Poirot requested that the case be sent to him directly.

In spite of himself, Poirot was intrigued. A woman was seen boarding a direct train, however when the train arrived, the woman was not on it. Somewhere between Brussels and Paris, Madame Hourdin had disappeared, if indeed it was Madame Hourdin. However, as he had already stated quite clearly to Monsieur Hourdin, until suspicious circumstances surrounded the disappearance, it was simply a case of a wife leaving her husband.

-o-

Two days later, news reached Poirot that the body of a woman answering to Madame Hourdin's description had been found at the side of the rail tracks three miles outside Tournai. The Médecin Légiste did not require much time to render his opinion on cause of death – the woman had been stabbed once through the heart with a thin, sharp blade.

It was an enraged Hourdin who greeted Poirot and Jacquemin on their arrival in Schaerbeek.

"Satisfied are you?" he bellowed. "You wouldn't do anything to help me find her and now it's too late."

Poirot judged it wisest to say nothing to the widower on the subject of the time of his wife's death. According to the doctor's opinion, she had died the night the train left.

Olive, the maid, was clearing away the morning tea.

"Monsieur. I am sorry for your loss, however it is of vital importance that we deduce who may have wanted to kill Madame Hourdin."

The man shook his head "I wish I could say I don't know, but...". Wiping his eyes on a shirt sleeve, he held out a small sheaf of papers to Poirot.

"I found these letters this morning, they were at the back of the drawer in Gerta's bureau. I was trying to find a reason for why anyone would... Read them." he whispered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Poirot noticed that Olive had stopped her work and was looking at the letters in his hand and frowning. He then turned his attention to the documents. The unsigned letters varied in tone, the early ones being tender. Surprisingly, the later letters began to request sums of money, the last of the letters was the shortest, simply saying: Take the night train to Paris. Bring what we agreed. It will go ill with you if you refuse, F.

Hourdin was leaning on the mantelpiece, breathing shakily. Olive had left the room.

"You have no idea who this mysterious "F" might be?"

"None at all."

"Did Madame own a private bank account?"

"No, we only have one account at the Banque Nationale de Belgique but I did notice sums of money going out. She said it was all charitable gifts."

"Did you believe her?"

"Of course!"

The governess, Mademoiselle Geneviève, crept softly in to the room and crossed to speak to Hourdin.

"Monsieur? Shall I take Clément to the park now?"

"If you wish. I will probably go to the bank as soon as the police have left."

"But surely, it is too soon?" she placed a gentle hand on his arm.

"Geneviève, it's very kind of you, but work will help take my mind off things."

The young woman nodded and left. Poirot could not help but notice how similar the governess and Madame Hourdin looked, she also seemed to be limping.

Olive showed Poirot to Madame's bedroom and stayed while he examined it thoroughly, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The small writing table by the window was neat and tidy, although the pen tray was not quite straight enough to satisfy Poirot. Jacquemin, who had been sent out to the car to retrieve the suitcase found on the train, came back into the room.

"Ah, thank you Jacquemin. Mademoiselle, tell to me please, do these clothes look familiar to you?"

"Yes, Monsieur. It is Madame's coat. But it's her church hat, not her..." she trailed off, looking at the clothes and glancing over at the writing table.

"Mademoiselle?" asked Poirot.

"Oh. It's probably nothing" she shrugged and hurried away.

Poirot shook his head "Jacquemin, the nothings, they are most important. Certainly, it may be nothing but it could also be something."

The police officers left the house at the same time as Monsieur Hourdin. As they were leaving, an elderly man in the house across the street hailed them.

"You there!" he called. "Either one of you will do!"

Jacquemin drew the short straw and went to talk to him while Poirot returned to police headquarters.

"Well, I say it's none too soon! I suppose you've just given him fair warning? A breach of the peace if you ask me, tearing around the streets at midnight."

The old man had lodged complaints, he said, at police headquarters about his neighbour across the street and his noisy car.

"One of those wretched Minerva cars. Hypocrite. How, I wonder, does a bank clerk afford one of those, eh?"

"You mention 'tearing around at midnight'. When was this?"

The old man thought for a moment, "Tuesday night, I think, around quarter past eleven? And if that wasn't bad enough, he woke me up when he came back. It must have been just after three in the morning."

Jacquemin respectfully noted down all the man said then took his leave and returned quickly to the office to speak to Inspecteur Poirot, his cheery mood nothing dampened by the sudden shower of rain.

-o-

Poirot had employed his time having a private word with the manager of the Banque National de Belgique who, albeit uneasily, provided statements of the Hourdin account. If indeed Madame Hourdin had paid any of the sums of money requested by the letter writer, there was no trace of it in the bank account. The manager confirmed that no other accounts were held at the bank by either Monsieur or Madame Hourdin. Enquiries sent out by Poirot to other banks in Belgium also returned no results. It would appear that the Hourdins only had the one account.

He arrived back in his office and nearly collided with Jacquemin in the doorway who was hurriedly donning his overcoat. In the car, back on the road towards Schaerbeek, the young officer told Poirot about his conversation with the old neighbour and, more importantly, the telephone message left for them by the switchboard operator. It seemed Olive had telephoned to speak to either of them, something important about the wrong hat.

By the time they arrived back at the Hourdin residence, further tragedy had struck. Geneviève had returned from the outing to the park to find that Olive had fallen down the stairs and died.

-o-

In the central Brussels mortuary, Poirot was discussing the recent casualty with the Médecin Légiste. "So, Monsieur le docteur, did she indeed fall down the stairs as Mademoiselle Geneviève claims?"

"With the help of a blunt instrument to the back of the head. Judging by the size and shape, I'd say you may be looking for a fire iron."

"Sapristi!" exclaimed Poirot "The probably nothing, it is the key to this case."

Jacquemin was looking over Olive's personal effects and in particular a small leather notebook. On closer inspection, it was an old pocket sized ledger dated 1898 belonging to Pierrick Hourdin.

A telegram to a brother officer in Amsterdam later and Poirot was able to share his conclusions.

-o-

It was raining again when the two police officers returned to Schaerbeek. Poirot carefully placed his wet umbrella in the large stand in the hall, and smiled faintly at Jacquemin.

"It was an intriguing case this. A woman boards a direct train but does not arrive at the train's destination. Two days later, she is found, stabbed through the heart. Who could possibly want to dispose of her? Her blackmailer, perhaps."

"You've found "F"? You've found the man who took my Gerta from me?"

"Yes. And No. The truth is, there is no blackmailer. On the day you showed me the letters requesting money from your wife, your maid Olive was in the room. Usually, she would receive the letters from the postman and bring them to you, is that not so? However, those letters were never delivered here and she knew this. Have you noticed, Monsieur, that one of your pocket ledgers is missing?"

Hourdin shifted in his seat "Really?" he asked, uninterestedly. "And why would that be important?"

"Simply that it provides adequate examples of your handwriting to compare with the letters to your wife. You wrote the letters. And your wife withdrew no sums of money to give to her charitable causes."

"Are you saying, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, that I blackmailed and murdered my wife?"

"No, no Monsieur. Not at all. It was your governess who murdered your wife, and your maid."

Geneviève gasped.

"Oh yes, Mademoiselle" said Poirot, advancing towards her. "This was your plan from the beginning, no? You suspected that as the daughter of a gemstone dealer, your mistress had inherited a great deal from her father and as such, Monsieur Hourdin would inherit the vast fortune if his wife should die. And, as the other woman in the house, you would be ideally placed to comfort the grieving man and eventually become his second wife. No?"

Hourdin had begun to weep silently.

"On the night of her disappearance, I can only conjecture that, once everyone else was in bed, you went into Madame's room. You took the letter opener from Madame's desk and stabbed her through the heart as she slept. You told Monsieur Hourdin what you had done, and I conjecture you told him that you were in love with him and that this was the only way the pair of you could be together. He was so aghast at what you had done and yet, he agreed to help you conceal your crime. No doubt because he felt a measure of guilt that he had not loved his wife as much as he ought or that he was, against his will, attracted to you."

"A vivid fantasy, but I'm afraid you are adrift in one small detail. She didn't have a letter opener." said Geneviève.

"Oh but she did!" confirmed Poirot, "Olive was a very noticing girl. She frequently delivered notes to Madame when she was still in her room and so she saw her mistress using the letter knife on more than one occasion. When she showed Jacquemin and myself to Madame's room, she noticed that the letter opener was missing from the desk. She also tried to tell me about the hat you wore as you boarded the train."

"Me?" asked Geneviève, astonished. "I was here all night, nowhere near the station."

"No, no and no. It was you at the station. Monsieur Hourdin drove you there in his Minerva car, the car that your neighbour he so abhors. Your neighbour, he saw you take your car out after eleven o'clock and you did not return until three."

"So what if I did?" asked Hourdin, defiantly.

"Just under four hours is long enough for you to leave Mademoiselle at the station and drive to Tournai and back. Very few vehicules were out on the road at that time of night. Several witnesses saw your car on the road to Tournai."

Poirot continued speaking to the governess "You wore one of Madame's coats, but you mistook the hat. Both Olive and a porter at the station recognised it as Madame's church hat. A hat she only ever wore to church and never to travel on the trains. You boarded the train, making sure that someone would hear you exchanging words with the driver of the car. You chose an empty compartment and from the suitcase you had with you, you changed into a different coat and hat. You opened a door on the opposite side of the train, which no-one from the station would see and you jumped down onto the tracks. Unfortunately, you turned your ankle which causes you to limp. You instructed Monsieur Hourdin to write the threatening letters. Then, a catastrophe. Minutes after Jacquemin and myself leave the house, you overhear Olive telephoning to the police. You realise what she knows and you clumsily decide to silence her."

"That's preposterous!" snapped Geneviève. "I had gone to park, do you not remember?"

"In the rain?" asked Poirot, amused. Immediately becoming serious again, he continued "You crept up behind her and struck her down. Then you arranged her body at the foot of the stairs to make it look as though she had simply fallen."

Smiling slyly at him, Geneviève asked Poirot "And where are the murder weapons I used?"

Jacquemin, absent until a few moments before, stepped forward.

"The letter opener was back on Madame's bureau and the poker is currently in the umbrella stand in the hall." Turning to Poirot, he said "I believe traces of blood can be found on both weapons, Monsieur."

Geneviève launched from her chair and made a futile dash for the door. As she and Hourdin were being led away, Poirot said "It may interest both of you to know that Madame's supposed wealth is next to nothing. Her father died a ruined and penniless man, leaving his child only fond memories."


	3. Silent as the grave

Brussels, January 1908

If it had simply been a case of a lady in her late thirties unexpectedly dying in her sleep, it would probably never have come to the attention of Poirot and Jacquemin.

-o-

In the small town of Saint-Josse-ten-Noode, Mademoiselle Anne Drouet lived in a two room apartment over a dingy tailor's shop. The building itself was shabby and backed onto a rubbish-strewn cobbled yard with a broken wooden gate which would swing open at the slightest gust of wind.

Drouet worked for the Compagnie Belge du Téléphone Bell as an operator at the telephone exchange in Brussels and it was only after she had been absent from work for three days with no word that the manager thought someone ought perhaps to visit her. Monsieur de Goeij, the Dutch tailor, could give no information about Anne's whereabouts, so long as she paid the usual rent at the usual time, he was satisfied. The local police were called to break down the door and what they discovered prompted them to call the Médecin Légiste.

At first glance, one would not think anything amiss with the deceased, however the circumstance which led to the Médecin putting in a call to Poirot was the woman's tongue. Or to be more precise, the lack of it. At some point after her death, someone had cut out Anne Drouet's tongue.

-o-

Poirot and Jacquemin stood in Mademoiselle Drouet's living room, taking in their surroundings. The preciseness and order were extremely pleasing to Poirot. The few books the woman had owned were ranged upon the shelves in order of size, the linen cupboard was arranged to perfection, every item neatly folded.

There was a small dining table covered by an oilcloth with two upright chairs and a faded armchair by the fireplace. On the hearth stood a large, faded firescreen, concealing the grate.

"Hm. That's odd, Monsieur" said Jacquemin, who was examining the kitchen corner. In the small cupboard which held the crockery four saucers were stacked neatly on four side plates, themselves stacked just as neatly on four dinner plates. Four bowls stood next to them and on an upper shelf, there were four cups upside down and all, except one, with the handle pointing to the left.

"Yes, indeed. Most odd. And what does it say to you?" replied Poirot.

With a smile, Jacquemin answered "It says to me that someone other than Mademoiselle Drouet washed and dried the cup and put it back on the shelf, probably after she was dead – I can't imagine she would rest comfortably, knowing that her affairs were thus out of order."

Poirot nodded in satisfaction. Jacquemin had recently been promoted and, although his grey cells were perhaps no match for Poirot's, he was nonetheless an intelligent young man with an eye for detail.

They turned their attention to the separate bedroom. A small chamber, with not much room for anything other than a narrow bed and a mismatched wardrobe and chiffonnier. To anyone other than Poirot and Jacquemin the room looked untouched. However, they noticed that the bedside rug was at an angle, one or two of the chiffonnier drawers had not been fully closed and the contents had been disturbed.

"Someone was looking for something." murmured Poirot.

-o-

The next port of call for the two men was Mademoiselle Drouet's place of work.

It had not taken the management long to fill the situation left vacant by the poor young woman's death. Her replacement was an insipid middle-aged woman who could offer no valuable information and seemed, indeed, to be more interested in asking the detectives for details of some of the more gruesome murders she had read about in the sensationalist newspapers which littered the gutters.

They hoped the girl who had sat next to Drouet would prove more useful, although the manager at the exchange was reluctant to allow Mademoiselle Chatrenet any time to speak to the police officers. The girl herself sorely tried Poirot's patience since she returned only monosyllabic answers to his questions, wringing her hands in what she must have assumed was an adequate expression of woe.

After almost ten minutes, the manager appeared at the door and coughed loudly, signalling that he considered it high time the officers left.

"Heavens!" cried Jacquemin as they accompanied Mademoiselle Chatrenet back to her work desk "This looks ever so complicated. I doubt I'm even half clever enough to understand how it works."

With a shy smile, she explained.

"When a subscriber picks up their receiver to make a call, the light next to their jack turns on. I take this receiving call cable and plug it in and ask the caller what number they would like. They tell me, then I plug this calling cable into the jack of the person they want to speak to and, when the other person answers, I turn this switch, make a note of the time and the caller's name, so we know which subscriber to charge for the telephone call."

"She was good at her work, Anne?" asked Jacquemin.

"She was forgetful. She would sometimes be so busy writing in her journal that she would forget to the turn the switch."

"She kept a journal?"

"Yes, I think it was a black leather pocket notebook" replied Mademoiselle Chatrenet "She was a bit secretive about it, if the manager saw her writing in her journal he would probably have dismissed her."

"Is it so important to turn the switch?"

Mademoiselle Chatrenet looked shocked, "Of course, otherwise the operator would be able to hear whatever the callers were saying to each other!"

Poirot and Jacquemin thanked her for her time and left the office in silence. Once out of earshot, Poirot remarked "so, Mademoiselle Drouet was listening to private calls."

"Indeed, eavsdropping and no doubt making notes about what she heard. A blackmailer then? It might explain what someone was looking for in her apartment."

"The question, Jacquemin, is who is this someone."

On the assumption that the notebook Mademoiselle Chatrenet had mentioned contained Drouet's blackmail material, the men returned to her apartment. Nothing had been disturbed since their last visit but nonetheless, Poirot began to meticulously search the bedroom while Jacquemin searched the main room. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, rolled his sleeves up, moved the firescreen and began to examine the ash-filled grate.

"Paper!" he called to Poirot, who came to watch over Jacquemin's shoulder. Unfortunately, none of the paper was legible but, nothing deterred, Jacquemin continued his careful searching. Finally, underneath the grate itself, he found a charred notebook. The cover itself was cracked and scorched, most of the pages had been ripped out and those which remained were blank, he sat back on his heels with a frustrated sigh.

"Useless, Poirot. It tells us nothing at all."

"You think so? It tells me that this book was important to someone. Who destroyed it? The killer or Mademoiselle Drouet herself?"

Jacquemin thought for a moment, "She ripped it up and burned it. The killer could simply tuck it in a pocket and take it away, however the girl must have realised that there was nowhere in the apartment to hide the book and she would have no opportunity of smuggling it out to hide it elsewhere."

Poirot smiled at his young colleague, delighted at his intellect.

"Do you think she blackmailed strangers?"

"No Jacquemin. She blackmailed people she saw regularly, people she knew."

As they locked the door and descended to the street, Monsieur de Goeij was sweeping the floor of his shop. He glared at them, wanting to know when the police would be finished with their investigation so he could have the apartment back.

"I'm not a rich man, an apartment standing empty over my head is bringing me no money at all."

They asked him what he knew about his deceased tenant.

"Not much" he shrugged, leaning heavily on his broom "She was a good Catholic. Always going out to Mass on Sunday and that busybodies meeting on Wednesday evenings. Supposedly they're making and mending clothes for the poor, if you ask me though it's just an opportunity for bored women to sit around and gossip."

"What are 'alterations by post'?" asked Jacquemin, pointing to one of the signs in the tailor's window.

"Some of my clients send me the clothes they want altered with notes and measurements. I make the alterations and send the clothes back by post" and without further ado, the tailor returned to his shop, slamming the door hard enough to make the windows rattle.

-o-

The next day was a Wednesday and the police officers decided to pay a visit to the ladies' group which met in a side chapel of the Eglise de St Gervais. Although they would not go so far as to label their reception hostile, it was at least a little chilly. The general consensus was that Poor Little Anne (as one of the older ladies called her) was nice enough; neither kind nor unkind, she kept her distance. They knew, of course, that she worked at the telephone exchange and at least one of the group's members considered it a highly unsuitable profession for a woman.

Jacquemin smiled and said "My mother detests the telephone – she won't even have one in the house! 'You never know who may be listening' is what she always says!"

The youngest lady in the group, who had been paying great attention to her sewing whilst casting surreptitious glances at the handsome young police officer, said with a slight laugh "Anne was hardly a saint. She tried to extort money from me once."

There were several gasps and glares from the other women, the young lady looked up at them, surprised, "Well? Didn't she ever try it on you? She whispered that she knew I was going to meet a man named Albert at the train station and that we would run away to Bruges. Most disappointed she was when I told her that Albert is my brother and that he and his new wife were coming to Brussels before taking a train up to Bruges to catch a boat to Sweden."

As she finished, there were faint smiles on other faces and it was almost two hours later and late in the evening when the men were able to extricate themselves from the gleefully gossiping women with a much better knowledge of Anne's character and in particular of how poor a blackmailer she was.

"Not that poor though, at least in one case she unfortunately struck home."

A message from the Médecin Légiste was waiting for them at headquarters, he had more information to report on the death of Mademoiselle Drouet and, since Jacquemin did not have the strongest stomach (his only failing in Poirot's opinion), he elected to remain behind.

-o-

By lunchtime the next day, Jacquemin and Poirot were able to put the pieces of their puzzle together and solve the mystery.

Jacquemin had been wiser than to ask the newly appointed Commissaire Boucher for permission to search a business premises without any apparent evidence so the previous evening, after Poirot had left, he had returned to Saint Josse. He had crept up to the back of the shop and peered into the workroom. Unnoticed by de Goeij, he watched as the man carefully unpicked the hem of a large fur coat, pulled out a small paper packet then dug around in his pockets for a battered jeweller's eyeglass.

Poirot had come away from his late night visit to the mortuary with interesting intelligence. Mademoiselle Drouet had been drugged, a sleeping draught probably administered in a cup of coffee the woman had drunk just before her death. Faint traces of chalk were found on the woman's face. Then Poirot had asked the Médecin how her tongue had been cut out.

-o-

The tailor lashed out in fury when the police arrived to arrest him for dealing in stolen jewels and the murder of his tenant.

Further investigation uncovered a network of jewel thieves operating in Antwerp who were sending the fruits of their labours to de Goeij who would repackage them and send them on to traders in the Netherlands. It was unfortunate for Anne Drouet that she had caught a glimpse of de Goeij with his jewels. Initially she had not been suspicious but after much thought, she decided to seek out the tailor and ask about what she had seen, threatening to reveal his secret unless he handed over a significant portion of the profits. He had visited her apartment with a flask of coffee and offered her a cup, declining to drink some himself. Once she was asleep, he smothered her with his bare hands, which were, albeit unbeknownst to him, covered in a thin film of chalk dust. He deliberately left the bedroom in an untidy state and it was in fact he who discovered and destroyed the leather book. As a last act of revenge, he had cut out the woman's tongue with his sharpest shears.


	4. A Knight at the Opera

Belgium, 1908

Some aficionados of the classical arts are prepared to travel the world to watch their favourite performers.

Sir Corin Stubbs was one such devotee and was currently sitting with his wife in box nine at the Opera Royal de Wallonie in Liège. The opera was a new composition and the Swiss soprano was giving an adequate interpretation of the libretto. Stubbs greeted the end of each aria with such enthusiastic applause and cries of "bravo!" that fellow audience members and indeed the performers themselves were growing tired of his outbursts.

The lights dimmed and the curtain rose for the third act. Sir and Lady Stubbs had finished their interval drinks and, leaving the glasses on the small table to be collected by a box attendant, returned to their seats. A reed-voiced baritone began to sing a tiresome serenade to the elderly soprano who was spurning his amorous advances. As the duet reached its climax, performers and audience prepared themselves for the inevitable enthusiasm from box nine. Surprisingly, Sir Corin neither applauded nor called out his praise, it looked like the man had just nodded off to sleep in his chair. In fact, the poor man was dead.

-o-

Jacquemin and Poirot were shown into the suite occupied by Lady Stubbs at the Hôtel Neuvice in Liège. The room's faded opulence jarred with the attire chosen by the widow and while the cut of her gown was rather daring, it was at least black so no-one could really criticise.

She put down the book she had been reading and, languidly shaking hands with the officers, invited them to sit. Although her ladyship spoke excellent French, she chose to speak English with them, putting them at a disadvantage.

"Forgive the gloom" she said, gesturing to the dusty velvet curtains which blocked out almost all the daylight. "A headache. Most inconvenient."

Poirot was relieved to find that her ladyship was not so overwhelmed with grief as to be incapable of answering a few questions. He asked whether anything had seemed out of the ordinary during the evening at the theatre but she had not noticed anything which might cause concern.

"When did you notice that your husband was..." Poirot paused.

"Dead?" Lady Felicity supplied, "It must have been perhaps 20 minutes into the third act."

"But Madame, why did you not call for a doctor then? I believe you waited until the performance it had finished."

"It was obvious that he was dead and I didn't want to make a scene." she replied, surprised at Poirot's question.

She went on, speaking rapidly "I suppose this is the point where you ask me whether my husband had any enemies or anyone who could possibly wish him harm? If so, I'm afraid I cannot help you. My husband was a good man, perhaps not universally liked but hardly the sort of man to be murdered in cold blood. Have you any idea of when Corin's body will be released? I am sure he would wish to be buried in England."

Jacquemin leaned forward in his chair, "Why do you say he was murdered?"

"Would two police detectives really come all the way to Liège from Brussels if it were simply natural causes? Besides, as I said, Corin's health was excellent. You can consult his physician in Harley Street if you wish. He was murdered, wasn't he?"

Poirot nodded. "The médecin légiste suspects atropine poison, most likely it was administered in the glass of Sir Corin."

Lady Stubbs looked horrified "But we both had a glass of champagne. Perhaps the murderer wanted to kill _me_!"

"Would anyone have a reason to wish your death?" asked Jacquemin.

"Of course not" she replied airily. "What a ridiculous idea".

A few further questions served only to confirm that Lady Felicity did not see who delivered the drinks, nor indeed when. It would have been possible for a box attendant to carefully leave the drinks, exit the box and for someone else to open the door and tamper with the glasses without being seen.

-o-

The following day, Jacquemin and Poirot visited the opera house to question some of the staff who had been working on the night of Sir Corin's death.

The waiter, Clarence, was preparing for the evening's opera goers. He showed the officers where he put the trays for the interval drinks once they were ready and the ticket numbers which would indicate to the attendants which tray was intended for which box.

"Would it be possible to switch the tray tickets when your back was turned? For example, exchange number 9 and 6?" asked Jacquemin.

"I suppose so. I can't think why anyone would though" replied Clarence.

"What's going on here?" demanded a stout man, standing in the doorway of the Salon des Glaces.

"And you are, Monsieur?" asked Poirot.

"Monsieur Gribault, Director of the Opera House. Why are you interrogating my staff? You should address your questions to me. Why did you not come to my office?"

Jacquemin replied, in a reasonable tone, "But you were not to be found in your office".

The stress laid on the word 'office' and the recollection that these police officers were investigators known to have sharp eyes and sharper intellects concerned the Director. A few impertinent questions and they would know, if they did not already, where he had been in the opera house and more to the point with whom.

"I have but one further question. Tell to me please Monsieur Clarence, did you see anyone other than the attendants enter or leave the boxes during the opera?" asked Poirot.

Clarence glanced at Monsieur Gribault before replying "Not during the first half, no".

"If you have quite finished, I will show you to the door" barked the director.

Poirot and Jacquemin followed him down the Grand Staircase to the front doors of the opera house.

"I trust" said Gribault "That the next time you visit us, you will come and see me first? There's no need to go and speak to anyone else. I pay the staff to do their job, not hang around watching people".

"Indeed" replied Poirot. Over his shoulder Jacquemin was patting his pockets and looking perplexed.

"Inspecteur" he said softly "I seem to have mislaid my glove".

Poirot spun round to face his junior officer, "But Jacquemin, this is the third time this week! Are you sure you had it when we arrived?"

Jacquemin nodded, his face a picture of misery.

"I can't afford to dance attendance on you all day" remarked Gribault. "Find your damned glove and show yourselves out. And no talking to the staff".

Jacquemin and Poirot returned to the Salon des Glaces where Clarence was still preparing his trays.

"Well now" began Poirot "No-one left during the first half of the opera. But during the second half?"

Clarence paused, looking from Poirot to Jacquemin. "It was about half an hour after the start. I think they were from the Italian embassy, two men, but I don't know who they were."

"Why would you think so?" asked Poirot.

"I know all the other opera attendees, by sight at least. The only ones I wouldn't recognise would be the ones from the embassy. They take box 6 every season. Usually it's the ambassador who comes to the opera but sometimes he gives his tickets to other people at the embassy, especially if it's one of the more avant garde composers. I only saw their backs as they were going down the stairs so I can't tell you any more".

They thanked the waiter and left. Once back in the car and on their way to the Liège police headquarters, Poirot asked whether Jacquemin had found his missing glove.

"Oh yes" he replied, slyly. "In my pocket the whole time."

"As I thought" murmured Poirot, smiling.

-o-

Poirot sat at his desk, deep in thought. His little grey cells had been demanding peace and quiet to do their work so he had sent Jacquemin off to see the Italian ambassador. He had reported back thatl the mysterious men who had occupied box 6 that night were Alessio Sansone, a junior clerk who had a penchant for modern music and his younger brother, Donato, visiting from Naples. According to the ambassador, Alessio had complained of feeling unwell during the evening and they had left before the opera was over. The young man had since recovered, his doctor's diagnosis was a simple case of indigestion from eating far too many oysters.

"So" said Poirot, steepling his fingers "The occupants of box 6 were a junior clerk and his brother. Not persons of any real significance. One, he complains of feeling unwell, but it is put down to indigestion and the man is now returned to health. You say that the ambassador and the Sansone brothers are very different in appearance?"

"Oh yes, Poirot" replied Jacquemin "Impossible to mistake one for the other".

"Then let us assume that the trays were not switched. That the poison was intended for either Sir Corin or Lady Stubbs."

"But why? They were just an ordinary English Lord and his wife, no?"

Poirot was unconvinced "Perhaps or perhaps not. Sir Corin held a government office of some kind".

"You think he knew something? Something important which someone didn't want anyone else to find out?"

"It could be" said Poirot, rising to his feet and beginning to pace around the small office. "Some _thing_ , some _one_. But what? What thing and which person? It is like the fog, this case."

"Maybe we should ask Lady Felicity? Perhaps she might be able to shed some light. Although I hope she's drawn back the curtains this time. I could hardly see a thing when we last visited her."

"Yes, indeed," replied Poirot "the light".

-o-

Lady Felicity was sipping a cup of hot tea when the police officers were shown in. The room was, as when they had visited her before, almost dark. They waited until they were sure that her ladyship's maid was out of earshot before speaking.

"Please, Madame, tell me why you killed your husband?" asked Poirot.

There was silence for a few moments, then the woman carefully replaced her cup on its saucer and laid it on the small table by her elbow. She scrutinised the faces of Poirot and Jacquemin but neither gave anything away.

With a sigh, almost of relief, she replied "I _loathe_ opera."

Poirot blinked with surprise.

"Not all opera, of course." she continued "I can sit through Tosca easily enough. La Bohème is sentimental nonsense and Mozart was an insufferable show off."

"You killed him because you dislike opera?" asked Jacquemin, incredulously.

"20 years, dragged around the world, attending this premiere, listening to that soprano. Such an awful bore and a great waste of time if you ask me. You know how I did it, I suppose? The atropine poison?"

"Your belladonna eyedrops. That is why you keep the drapes always closed, is it not?" Poirot replied. "Too much bright light, it must hurt your eyes and give you the headache."

"Very good, Inspecteur. It just took a few drops in Corin's glass. I'm surprised no-one noticed."

Jacquemin was, for once, trying to keep up. "But if you dislike opera so much, why did you not just tell him so and refrain from accompanying him?"

Lady Felicity looked shocked. "I couldn't do that. It would have hurt his feelings and been most dreadfully impolite." Turning to Poirot, she continued "What's the punishment in Belgium for murder? The guillotine or the gallows? If one were permitted a choice, I would rather the guillotine. Quick and relatively painless by all accounts. It does save a lot of… ha ha" she laughed "I was going to say 'saves a lot of hanging about' but I think you know what I mean."

She stood up and murmured "I do hope it's not raining. I just bought these shoes and I should so hate to ruin them by getting them wet." and turning to Poirot she smiled. "Shall we sally forth then?"

Poirot nodded assent and thought, not for the first time, that the English were truly a perplexing breed.


End file.
